I Can't Continue
by SirienneHolmes
Summary: This is actually the first Sherlock fanfic I wrote, so it kinda sucks. Sherlock doesn't eat and passes out for a while. John takes care of him.


**I Can't Continue**

John Watson stomped up the stairs to his flat, 221B Baker Street, two moderately heavy plastic shopping bags in his hand. Thanks to Sherlock's experimentation, they were out of milk for the third time this week, as well as other things, and he'd gone to fetch them. When he came to the open door of the flat, he saw Sherlock hadn't moved from the position he'd left him in.

Sherlock Holmes was lying on his back on the couch, dark curls cradled by a decorative pillow right below the smiley face he'd spray painted and shot into the wall with John's gun. He was sort of half-dressed, the suit jacket discarded, his light blue shirt rolled up at the sleeves, one closer to his elbow than the other. This arm sported three nicotine patches. He claimed to be doing well in his campaign to quit smoking, but he craved it every so often. That wasn't why he was wearing three, though.

"Do you know how long you've been like that?" John went into the kitchen to dump the groceries on a clear bit of the table. The chemistry set rattled as the milk and the other heavy items collided with the wood. Realizing he would never be heard if the detective's name wasn't involved, he called, "Sherlock!"

"Hmm?" Sherlock didn't move, not even to open his eyes. In fact, John noted, it was as if he wasn't even breathing. Sherlock's frail appearance could give the illusion of death—he was never, ever pink with life.

"Do you know how long you've been lying there? It's a wonder Mrs. Hudson hasn't phoned Lestrade!"

"To tell him what?" Sherlock appeared perplexed, enough to sit up halfway, his long arms supporting him as he sat up, hair messed out of place, eyes narrowed in confusion.

"That you're dead, I suppose," John's point seemed moot, now that Sherlock was showing signs of life. Kind of. With an irritated huff, Sherlock collapsed into the couch again and resumed meditating on…whatever it was he was thinking about.

"What _are _you doing, anyway, Sherlock?" John had finished storing away the shopping and was busy making tea over the stove. He'd only seen Sherlock really eat a full meal once, and that was after John had shot the cab driver. Even then, Sherlock only nibbled at his food. Like a squirrel. John would worry about him—and did, to an extent. They were friends. But at least tea was something.

"I don't want tea," Sherlock said presently, his eyes opening to stare blankly at the ceiling. "Pass me my phone?" As if on cue, Sherlock's phone chirped.

John sighed and went into the main living area. He grabbed Sherlock's phone off the computer table and deposited it into Sherlock's waiting hand. Sherlock took a breath that sounded like a gasp and began to text furiously. John sat in his armchair to read the news. "I asked you a question, you know," he began, rustling the newspaper loudly to get his friend's attention.

"When?" Sherlock put his phone in his pocket and pressed his hands together, fingertips touching.

"You're slipping," John teased. Sherlock tossed him a glare that threw daggers. "Twenty minutes ago," John smirked, unphased by Sherlock's unspoken threat.

"Oh,"

The response made John look up. Because it was a weak 'oh.' It wasn't a 'ah ha' oh, and it wasn't followed by a smile that told him Sherlock Holmes had missed something—by just a hair, and never more than that. "Sherlock? You okay?" John worried.

Sherlock had a hand pressed at his temple. He looked…paler than his usual pale. He was practically white as a sheet! Apparently, John noted in a detached part of his brain, pale could get paler. And his friend's paleness was only intensified by the dark color of the couch.

"Yeah…fine, fine, I'm fine," Sherlock replied, rolling his sleeves down and buttoning the cuffs, jumping up so swiftly, it gave John whiplash. "C'mon…Lestrade wants us. There's been a murder." Sherlock put on his jacket and coat, tying the scarf he always wore tightly at his neck.

John followed just as swiftly, knowing he had to be quick to keep up with his friend, who always thought three steps ahead. It occurred to John later that Sherlock had never answered his question, but all would become clear in a moment.

The cab ride on the way over promised the usual silence, but for the groaning of the car. John took the time to study his friend, secretly testing himself to see if he could deduce what was wrong without having to ask. It had to be sickness. He'd never seen Sherlock so pale. And the darkness of London did nothing to improve his color. _What's the matter, Sherlock?_ John asked himself, trying to access details, in vain. Even knowing that he, John Watson, was not the world's only consulting detective, he found his friend unreadable. No wonder Donovan called him 'freak.'

"Freak's here, bringing him in," Sergeant Donovan said nastily, the usual greeting.

"Freak and friend, perhaps?" Sherlock suggested good-naturedly. "Spent the night with Anderson again, did you?"

"Stuff it," Donovan snapped. Sherlock seemed taken aback for a moment, a hesitation John didn't miss.

But it didn't last long. "Coming?" Sherlock asked, and John knew this was addressed to him, even though Sherlock wasn't facing him. He seemed off-balance as he tightened his coat around his body and went up the stairs to the scene of the crime. Sherlock was acting like John had been hesitating, when really it was he who needed a second. It made John more curious still. _What are you hiding, Sherlock?_

Watching Sherlock Holmes work is something that few people take notice of. Even a fewer number than that enjoy his work, and don't respond with a 'piss off.' Inspector Lestrade is one of those people, because he needs Sherlock's deductions, and he knows it.

John was watching Sherlock, who was detecting, his mind working a thousand times per second. John didn't miss the mistake Sherlock made with his feet—something so human, the whole world would've gasped—but Lestrade didn't notice. Sherlock almost tripped by stepping on the side of his shoe, but caught himself. For a moment, he looked like he was about to be violently sick. And it couldn't be the crime scene, no. The man who dissected eyeballs for fun was not moved by death. Or gore. _What's bothering you, Sherlock?_

Sherlock was speaking, to Lestrade really, but his monologue was for the benefit of all. "Badly worn shoes. She walked a lot. Cuff links embedded in her arms. Either she was tied up, or she was a fan of erotic sex. Either could be deduced. She worked as a prostitute before…" He faltered. Just for a minute, Sherlock Holmes faltered. John didn't miss the pupil dilation, and his heart began to race with worry. _What have you done, Sherlock?_

But Sherlock went back to doing what he loved, and soon he and John were racing to the site of another clue. "Taxi!" Sherlock yelled desperately into London's mid-afternoon traffic. They were in a cab in seconds, like magic, and off again.

This time, the car ride was less quiet. It had been a few hours since John had eaten properly, and he was starving. His stomach growled, and he winced, knowing that something like that didn't go by Sherlock.

"We'll eat. Soon." Sherlock said, in response to John's stomach. "Just need to find the next clue, and then we'll put this together. This is becoming dull," He hissed, frustrated. "Predictable!" He spat the word, almost begging criminals to do their worst, because _nothing_ got past Sherlock Holmes.

"Coming off a case like the last one," John noted, "_everything_ must seem dull for you."

"_Ahh_," Sherlock wagged his finger, smiling. "Now we're getting somewhere." But when John saw Sherlock's eyes, he stopped dead in his tracks.

Sherlock's eyes were dead, denied brightness and the usual luster of when he was on the trail. Sitting in the cab, his curls just brushing the window, Sherlock looked fragile. John wanted to really ask Sherlock if he was okay, confront him, but he knew that would never happen. Sherlock was determined. He could solve a crime sick, as he'd proved to John once.

He'd solved a kidnapping with a fever that by the end of the night was so high, he simply collapsed in the taxi ride to their flat. John had to practically drag Sherlock out of the car—not a difficult feat. Sherlock was very thin and light.

The words of Sergeant Donovan came to John's mind: _"He doesn't get paid or anything. He likes it."_

_You don't like this_, John thought, trying again to visually assess Sherlock. _How long until you collapse this time, Sherlock?_

"Don't you _see_, John?" Sherlock was in his face, excited. He turned to Lestrade and the other officers. "Don't you lot _see_?" Sherlock was panting, probably from excitement, but he looked tired to his core.

Sherlock gave John a look that asked him for backup. John provided the necessary evidence pointing to the murder of the former prostitute. A jealous lover. While Sherlock looked on, smirking, proud of his prodigy and his genius.

By the time the police had cleared out, it was dark. The night lamps were glowing golden in the streets of London. It was the end of another successful day for Sherlock Holmes. John was trying to call a cab, not as gifted at it as Sherlock. His friend was hanging back, a few steps behind him. Sherlock had begun to lose his energy once Lestrade had gone. While the other cops and MEs were cleaning up, Sherlock got quiet and strange, and yet lingered. So John stayed with him. And standing beside him, heard the strangest noise, not unlike the one his stomach had made earlier. But Sherlock cleared his throat loudly and pulled his coat closed. Again.

Just as John was about to call 'taxi' for the tenth time, his friend let out a whimper. There was the sound of body hitting wall. "Sherlock?" John turned around, only to find the detective limp against the wall. His knees were buckling, he looked fragile, helpless, sick. John rushed over, and, being a doctor, went to work. He loosened Sherlock's scarf, checked vitals, felt for wounds he'd maybe missed. As he was checking across Sherlock's chest, the detective breathing heavily all the while, he heard a distinct stomach growl that was not his own.

John breathed a sigh of relief and raised an eyebrow at a now-conscious Sherlock, who was just regaining it, blinking incredulously. "Sorry," he apologized roughly, elbowing the shorter man out of the way unceremoniously. "A bit tired. Problem?" He gave John a mischievous look and stumbled like a drunk towards the street. "Taxi!" But it came out hoarse and strangled. John put a strong hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Sherlock…really?"

Sherlock resigned, leaned against the lamppost, breathed, closing his eyes.

"You _never_ say sorry!" John laughed.

Sherlock chuckled a bit, if weakly. "Couldn't think of something clever. It's what happens when I'm too slow."

"You need to _eat_, Sherlock!" John punched his shoulder hard enough to hurt.

Sherlock cradled it, laughing. "Digesting slows me down! I told you, didn't I?"

"We'll see if you say that in a bit," John scolded. "Chinese?"

"I won't eat it!"

John sighed. He really was dealing with a child here. If Sherlock decided to get stubborn, it could be worse than dealing with a kid. "Be social and sit with me while I eat, then." He reasoned. Sherlock was on the couch, curled up in a ball. John almost laughed—dealing with a child. "Sherlock."

"All right," Sherlock stepped onto the coffee table and then came into the small kitchen.

John set out his own food first—eggrolls, hot and sour soup, and chow mein. Then, he set out the food he'd bought for Sherlock—wonton soup and ginger beef. It was a battle John thought he'd never have to watch Sherlock participate in, but after a minute or so, even the great detective couldn't beat his empty stomach.

He ate. Ravenously. He even ate John's eggrolls without noticing, although John let him. He hid a burp between his fingers and then got up to make tea. John stopped him. "I've got it," he told his flatmate. Sherlock, tired for once, didn't protest.

"I almost did say it," he said later, as John was blogging and he was watching telly.

"What?" John asked.

"That I couldn't continue. I never do that," Sherlock bit his lip, very out of character for him. He was opening up. John turned towards him a bit, although Sherlock did him no favors there. "I never back down from a case. I very nearly did."

"You'd starved yourself," John replied, medically detached from the situation, "for who knows how long. But you didn't back down."

"I never will." Sherlock vowed, smirking. "Problem?"

"Don't starve yourself so much…okay?" John chuckled and went back to blogging.

Sherlock chuckled. "I mean it. I'll never say 'I can't continue.' I won't even think about it."

John sighed. "All right. That's going on my blog."

Sherlock growled before lunging childishly for the computer.

"GIVE IT _BACK_, SHERLOCK!"

**END**


End file.
